Ponderings in the Sixth Ward
by Penultima
Summary: I have faith in you. I won't leave you. I won't let you die. In a hidden ward, thoughts wind their way through a confused mind. HL. Prequel to 'Dancing in the Rain' and 'and the Truth...'. COMPLETE
1. and the LIGHT submits into DARKNESS

When she stepped into the floor, she was barely surprised to see the halls devoid of people, unlike the bustling corridors of the other floors. She did not even need to wonder. Barely anyone knew the level even existed.

_Sixth level of St.Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries._

As she passed the monotonous labeled doors, she counted the numbers on them, not paying enough attention to note they came in a strange order. Had she a voice, she would count the numbers out loud, but her throat was as dry as the drought outside.

_One, three, five, seven, nine, eleven….._

And between the doors, the walls had labels too.

_Two, four, six, eight, ten…._

She stopped at the space between eleven and thirteen, her bright eyes gazing at the strip of white material with the number 'twelve' on it, as if waiting for a sign.

_Help me_.

Her thin fingers reached up and prodded the engraving, tracing the number as if writing it. At once a certain portion of wall assumed an outline, and a knob and keyhole surfaced from the dull white wall. She twisted the doorknob, walked into the darkness inside the door, and clicked it closed behind her.

The sound of dripping water seemed to overrule any other sound. Nothing else broke the otherwise perfect silence. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noted an hourglass filled with a type of thick, luminous blue liquid, dripping serenely. It rested on an ornate table, beside a bed where a group of shadows crowded over the bed's occupant. Only one of these shadows turned round to face her.

_He's alive. There are no tears._

_**He's alive.**_

There was no greeting, no move made to welcome her, and all she did was stare back at the unspeaking figure. As the man made no move to stop her, she walked closer to the bed, noted the seven people round the bed, and when she was close enough for her presence to be acknowledged, they moved to give her space.

The soft swishing of robes seemed to intrude on the silence, and everyone seemed to try to hurry and settle into the numbing quiet again. As if too much sound would rouse the weak presence resting on the white-draped cushions.

She did not notice anymore, all the sounds died away from her head when her tired eyes fell on his wasted form. His still, pale fingers and the back of his hands, one of which was marred with a white, barely visible scar. Her eyes moved upwards over his lightly muscled arms and his white-robed body, up to his face where her whole being froze in place.

She wished she could cry. At the way his lips were slightly apart, His mouth hanging only a little open in a stationary sort of wonder. His eyes were open, the startling emerald in them dulled by the blue light from the liquid hourglass. They seemed lost, blinking every now and then, just enough to assure her he was alive.

_Not this way. This is not your ending._ (_you'retheheroandthemaincharacterandtheworldrevolvesaroundyouand you d o n ' t d i e t h i s w a y )_

The soft rise and fall of his chest was of little comfort. If he was to live this way, she knew she would rather have him dead. Dead, yes, but at least then he would not look this way. He would not look so sad.

A hand found its way onto her shoulder. Quickly she turned her head to meet soft brown, sympathetic eyes, and behind the grim face a more feminine one, who looked down onto the boy and then lowered her eyes in defeat.

"I think it would be best if—if we leave him to himself now." _Let's leave him now, there's nothing else we can do._ Were they abandoning him now?

She looked back at the silent figure on the bed, and cast her eyes back towards the man with brown eyes, and shook her head, her pale tresses falling onto her face. With one defiant shake of her head, they fell back to place and her eyes fell back onto the man.

_They're leaving him to die._

"I'll stay." He only nodded softly, then looked to the woman behind him. She sniffled into a handkerchief then followed the man's lead, walking out of the room. One of the three female figures in the room walked softly towards her, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and left along with the other four in the room. One of them, with a scarred face and a swiveling electric blue eye, grunted softly as he passed her.

Finally, a tiny click announced the strangers' departure, and she threw the door a hesitant look over her shoulder.

At last, in the silence of the room, in his lonely, ebbing presence and the pain that came with it, she broke down and cried.

_I'm here. I'm here. I'll stay with you._ _I'll keep you close to me and make sure everything's alright._

_It's alright, it's alright. Don't cry._


	2. the DARKNESS before the DAWN

_**The Boy-Who-Lived Recovers in St. Mungo's**_

_Our beautiful emerald-eyed hero (whose victory we still celebrate in what is now the Month of Remembrance) currently lies in St. Mungo's after the horrifying incident that nearly cost him his life but assured his victory once and for all. Voldemort, (as we now finally dare to call him) has been destroyed and the terror that gripped the wizarding community is gone at last._

_"Bless his soul," announced Madam Dolores Umbridge during the court meeting in which the followers of the Dark Wizard have been sentenced to death under the axe (execution to take place tomorrow, 18th of July, at sunset), "I always believed he could defeat the Dark Wizard. I put so much faith in him. He has done so much for the living wizards and has gone through so much. We can only hope for his recovery after the Final Battle."_

_"Yes, yes, the losses have struck us very dearly. The Ministry is doing their best to make amends for the families who have lost relatives in the War, and we are trying to deal with the letters that continue to come into the Ministry. To clear up the worries, Mr. Potter is very much alright, I should say. He will recover in no time and will soon be able to answer press calls and return any mail addressed to him. However, in the mean time, he is receiving the best care St. Mungo's can provide, so I can say there is no need to worry." Answers Percy Weasley, Minister of Magic this morning in the first press conference after the War has ended._

_Meanwhile, Ronald B. Weasley and his wife Hermione J.G. Weasley refuse to comment or give any information on the condition of the infamous Harry Potter, and have given no clue whatsoever as to the ward he is being kept in. Rumours say he is being contained in the Department of Mysteries, while other accounts say he is treated within a secret chamber in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (for full list of possible whereabouts, see page 17, column two)._

_Rita Skeeter_

She slammed the offending paper down unto the table, attracting attention from the the bar's patrons around the other tables. Her lips were thin with fury and her eyes were fiery, like flame on top of bright brown coals. Beside her, Ronald Weasley placed a hand on top of his wife's shaking fingers. The rest of the table's occupants had their heads down, staring at the article. The woman's free hand pointed an accusatory finger at the Prophet on the table, at the picture of a woman with a flowery shawl drapped around her froggy face, her wide lips stretched in a disgustingly sweet way, one of her roundish hands raised in a wave. Umbridge did not seem to register the unfriendly pairs of eyes boring holes into her black and white face.

"She…" Hermione began, her chest heaving in fury, "How _dare_ she." How dare she speak of him in such a way? Percy they could forgive. After all, it was agreed that no bad news should arise about the Boy before any recovery was made. They were to never tell anyone what his real condition was. If he got worse, they still had to keep silent. When he died however, then, they would tell the public. But the disgusting toad on the Daily Prophet, they told themselves, had no _right_ whatsoever to speak of him. Not a _word_. Wasn't she the one who tried to shut him up about the Dark Wizard's rise?

But there she was, smiling triumphantly back at them with her empty pride, her empty words, the white lies she thinks are truths. And they, the ones with the Truth, with the power to see the reality of it all, all they could do was keep silent, pressing their lips so tightly together that the words would never, never come out.

_He's dying._

* * *

She had at first wondered why there were no windows in the Sixth Ward. Also the fact that no book or any kind of entertainment was available proceeded to occupy her mind most of the time. It was only lately; weeks after her first visit—that she realised why.

The Sixth Ward had been built for the Dead.

Not people who had stopped living, but people without hope of living. That was enough to send someone into death, in a way. She had been told the hourglass counted away his last hours, but she knew better. The hourglass was counting away the hope, the patience, all the feeling of giddy expectance available about the person's recovery. The Boy's had never been empty. Always half full, she told everyone. Even in this way, she knew they told themselves it meant _half empty_. But why banish her hopes? She thinks she is not sitting there for nothing, she thinks she is sitting there waiting for him to wake up. Why tell her she's just waiting for him to die? He was always getting worse, never showing signs of progress.

_It's always darkest before dawn._ Right? But they wouldn't hear of it.

She knew better. She knew what they thought of her, what they said about the woman at the side of the bed. She knew more than them about what he was currently like. After all, the Healers allowed no one else near him. During his flashing moments of wakefulness he'd always yelled and protested when he found anyone else at his side. He refused the presence of the Healers, refused the medicine. He was remedied by her presence, though, and her voice, though he did not seem to understand what she said, her voice would always be able to light his stunning green eyes; able to bring back the boy they knew.

In those same, bright eyes, she found his promise and his wishes and all the hopes he had in her. She found herself reflected in those depths, her hopes and dreams whispered in his wordless utterings. _Don't give up on me._ He told her, showed her. _Don't abandon hope. Keep me alive._

_Stay alive._

They both knew, knew perfectly well what bound her to the hard, stiff chair, to the silent, dark room; to the ebbing presence of a dying boy. They knew what bound him to the bed, to his floating existence, to the life he could not leave. They were each other's breath, their hopes realised in each other's presence, their lives carved in each other's blood. One had to live for the other to be complete.

_Stay alive, so I can live too._

Don't give up hope, they promised, don't you ever give up on me, they told each other. Regardless of the trials; they'd make it through, they vowed. After all, they'd come so far, hadn't they? Dodged the sharp looks, the sneering comments and all the darkness that shrouded their fate. Over it all an incessant gloom wrapped so tight around them they were suffocated. But he had broken the curse, torn the darkness in half and chased away the terror that towered over them. All because they never gave up, because they believed in each other, believed in the calm that would come afterthe storm.

Believed that somehow, someday, they would get a happy ending.

_Don't give up on me._

She curled her fingers around his still ones. She wished he could see her now. How happy he had made her, how beautiful, how special. How her eyes finally found their light and they sunk deeper into her face when she stopped searching for truths, less prominent now, but well settled into her face, how her skin carved itself through the years into a woman fit for a hero. How her heart found its treasure, how her whole being found her hopes, her dreams in him. She wished he could see what he had changed her into.

_Can you see what I've become?_ Her lips did not move, her calm voice did not pierce the silence, but her message rang through her heart, though her flesh, seethed through her skin, crept into his soul and took refuge in his innermost core, as close as possible to that heart that was beating because hers was too.

_You have given me hope, given me dreams, showed me to have faith._

She would not let him down.

She had faith in him.

_Don't give up on me._

She fell asleep at the side of his bed with his hand in hers, her head resting on her free arm, staring at his closed eyes before she drifted to sleep. She dreamed, that night, of princes on white stallions and princesses and Dark enemies that took the prince away. She dreamed of flying across seas and plains and the gate beyond life to find him.

She dreamed of finding hope in the shadows and keeping herself alive.

_It's always darkest before dawn._


	3. and the DAWN has helped us THROUGH

The light, at first, was warm and calming, but with her growing fatigue it soon became a nuisance. The brightness pricked her eyelids and filtered through them in a reddened haze, and it truly disturbed her to think it reminded her of blood. It was only some time afterwards that she began to think of its origins.

She had been living in the Ward for several weeks. Leaving the room only when her clothes began to stratch or the acids in her stomach began to dissolve the walls of her intestines and rumble in protest. Even then she would never leave for longer than a few hours at a time. She made sure too, in the meantime, that he would not be alone if he woke up. She spent so much time in there even the healers agreed to put in a more comfortable chair for her. Ron pointed out it wouldn't do them any good if she, in turn, fell unconscious just because she didn't get enough sleep.

So she slept in the Ward, and almost practically lived there. Sometimes she was content enough to stare at his face, undisturbed, smiling mischeviously as her finger traced the lines of his jaw and touched his lips. Other times she would slump back against her chair and reminisce, or fantasize about them together. Whatever it was, she was never able to get him out fo her mind. Even her dreams were of great flashes of light and screams and her own tears as he smiled and told her it was over.

Sometimes she dreamt of the Ward, too. She would dream of the empty hall and the row of doors and walls and count and find all the numbers started from a thousand. So she counted down the numbers as she ran and practically collapsed against the door. Only to see him lying on the bed, eyes open, mouth agape, his torso torn, innards spilt and blood dripping off the edge of the bed. And she'd scream and wake up, and much to her relief she would find him peacefully unconscious on that damned hospital bed. She spent so much time in the Ward that she could recall every part of it with eyes closed.

For one, there was no brighter light than the blue hourglass. And, afterall, the light was blue.

But the light forcing itself through her eyelids felt roughly like sunlight.

_There are no windows in the Sixth Ward_.

Her eyes quickly fluttered open, and the light cast on the painfully sterile, but ornately carved, gold-panelled furnishings was definitely sunlight. She lifted her head slowly, wincing at the soft crick from her stiff neck. Her numbed hands had padded her head, carefully placed on the bed so that she could stare at his face and sing herself to sleep (_making-believe he would hear her and her hopes and her dreams and her wishes so he would wake up_). She spread out her fingers to try get some blood back into them. Meanwhile, she raised her eyes to the opposite wall on the other side of the bed. On the usually empty stretch of wall were _windows_. With white-painted wood panelling to match the bare white walls and clear glass panes that opened up to the bright sky that never rained. Right at that moment, though, she couldn't care less of the drought that swept the skies and the fields outside the glass.

_How?_

Her head quickly snapped to gaze at the form on the bed. He was breathing ever serenely, head turned to the side and the sun shone on his face so she could not see it. But she could see the green eyes, paler now that the sun burned into them like blessed light from heaven. They were beautiful in their pale shade—and they blinked.

She blinked as well, in disbelief.

"Harry?" her voice was soft, hoarse and whimpering. The syllables rolled out of her mouth like an ancient spell, like a breath of spring that had just risen after winter's retreat.

He turned, face still shining under the sun like an ethereal beauty, frail, yes, but powerful and gallant in his own way, locking deep green eyes with her silver ones and gracing his tired features with a smile.

_He's alive._

She found she could not breathe, could not think, could not cry, could not speak. Instead she laughed and fell into his open arms, her head resting against his chest, pressing her ear against his gloriously beating heart and relishing the feel of his breath on her head. He laughed too, a weak, soft chuckle. The happiness came out of his heart as genuine feelings and he held her closer than never before, battle-worn arms encircling her and gripping her as tightly as his unused muscles would allow him. He blinked through tears and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lowering his head and laying his cheek against hers. She smiled wide, allowing her pent up tears to fall unchecked down her pale cheeks and let go the silenced sobs she'd kept to herself for so long.

"Good morning, Luna."

_Don't give up hope,_ they said to each other, _don't you ever give up on me._

_Whatever happens, regardless of the trials, we'll make it through._ They promised. He gave her a world of peace, gave them a wonderful world to live in. She gave him someone to come home to, gave them both hope. They gave each other love and clung on through everything. And they had made it through.

She gasped for breath through her sobs and looked up at him, at his eyes and knew he could see her now. He could see what she had become, could see what he had made her into. Silver and green locked in an almost eternal gaze, and she smiled back up at him.

_It's always darkest before dawn._

"Good morning, Harry."

They had just made it through.


End file.
